


Cluster

by Calyps0



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, One-Shots, Several prompts - Freeform, multiple fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2019-09-16 13:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16955121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calyps0/pseuds/Calyps0
Summary: Short one-shot works. I'll update whenever I can!





	1. Angel of the Morning

This is impossible. _He_ is impossible.

But, like the star that shines the brightest amidst a cloak of ink spreading across the sky, he is very, very real.

 _What are you doing here_ , she asks, as if he would be able to tell her, and receives a wry, _I could ask you the same thing,_ as an answer.

Or, a not-answer, because that clears up nothing at all. It doesn’t explain how he’s come to be here, when he should be millions of miles away, eons and galaxies and countless realms and six feet of dirt and sorrow apart, how he’s standing there as if no time and no pain has ever passed between the two of them, as distant as falling meteors. But he is staring at her, solidly, no flickering afterimage she sees sometimes in her dreams.

 _Is this a dream?_ She wonders, and it’s only when his mouth quirks into a smile that she realizes she’s said that aloud.

It’s a kind smile, she realizes. Kind, and serene. His posture is calm, and she’s not sure, but this might be the most relaxed she’s ever seen him. He looks—

Happy.

And it’s so foreign an expression on his face, it makes her want to cry. He moves closer to her, just a step, as if in concern, _to support her_ , she hopes, because she might just fall. _His lips look soft_ , she thinks dazedly, and _this must be real_ , after that, for—as someone who has been on the brink, on the very edge of death, has witnessed destruction with the devil at the helm—her pockets are empty, fresh out of miracles.

Her question still hangs unanswered in the air between them, a breath, a space, a pause gathering into itself.

 _No,_ he says in reply, and surety resounds in her bones.

 _Not a dream_.

Just a gift.

When he gathers her into his arms and her eyes turn to waterfalls, there is no sound, no echo, no world beyond his breadth and his warmth. He holds her tightly as if she might escape. She holds him tightly— _as if she’d ever want to._

He’s alive.

He’s alive.

_He’s alive._

It plays like a brand, like a chorus, like a chime— a jingle from her long-forgotten past, some small, juvenile part of herself tucked away in the recesses of her mind, safe and balled up: hidden.

It’s a song, now—beautiful, tinged with melancholy, and nostalgia, and all that could have been, back when the world unfolded underneath her feet and she could stand on a mountain, feet in the sand, and feel like she was at the helm, that the universe was under her control, and subject to her whims. But not even the slightest breeze or the smallest creature would dance to her command, and the branch she held in her hand like a staff had no power at all, crumbled to dust, might have been a twig, a leaf, a speck of dirt for all the good it did her.

But that life was one she had long left behind.

It had been tempting, not so long ago, when he offered her the power she had once only dreamed of. Galaxies, celestial bodies, entire solar systems, would bend to her will, bowing before her. _Her_. No longer a child, or a no one, but an _empress_ , a queen, a ruler. They two, together, fitted, slotted, she into his side, commanding, regal—true tyrants—would command their own destinies. They two, who would become one.

What her younger self—the one who starved a thousand years ago in the desert, bruised her fingers raw, foraged for the mere privilege of survival—must think of that decision, that day, when he held out his hand to her, so full of hope, and promise, fingers trembling, eyes shining with endless opportunity—

And she turned him down.

Dropped the scepter, shed the cloak, its formless weight cascading from her shoulders as if it had solidified there, across the breadth of her back, just by imagining it could be true. Her hands were empty, but she felt fuller than she ever had. Bursting at the seams, vibrating with energy; it was overwhelming, how insignificant she was, how she controlled _nothing_ , nothing at all, but could still feel so intensely, so strongly, so much it was as if she would be consumed by it, flames of fire licking at her and devouring her in a ball of light and heat and energy and electricity. Her heart—a stroke of life and death.

How long ago that had been, and yet how sharply it still smarts—like a wound, fresh and tender.

And still, _still,_ she knows, it was the right choice.

He’s here, now, looking like rainwater and peace, dark and pale and pooling, and he knows it was, too. He’s realized that, finally. A smile plays at his lips, and he’s smiling more in mere minutes than in the years that she’s known him, decades of pain and sorrow and regret erased like sand, and dust, and ashes. Ashes like the ones that lay at his feet, and hers, and weigh down their fingertips, and their hands, and gather in their boots, heavying their footsteps. They are the ashes of those who have fallen, mercilessly, brutally, died for their cause, neither knowing nor caring that this fight, this battle, might be their last.

With every tear she shed for them, her conviction grew stronger.

And, with time, her hope had come true. They had not died in vain. Their war was finally—decades and grief and ripping apart the world piece by piece, pushing it to the brink a thousand times again and again, only to painstakingly mend it back together—

It was over. All over. Completely still, silent—like a river. Cresting, like a wave, sand and a shore, limitless, like a great mouth, or a tidal wave unfolding beneath her feet, and all that remains is possibility.

He’s gripping her forearms, supporting her, holding her up, propping her like he’s a pedestal, and she a priceless treasure. She leans into him like a sigh. His face is next to hers, cheek soft against her chin. He turns to her, eyes locking onto hers, and he looks like marble, prismatic and perfect. But he is not a statue, not an obelisk, not a dedication to a long-worshipped god. He is a man, deeply flawed, dark and heavy and hurting and sorrowful, and regretful, but filled with such a well, a dark capacity for love. His hair curls a bit at the ends, a tiny kink, and it’s so human, so wonderfully far away from divine. His eyes glisten, damp and misty, and they are a soft brown that she only half-remembers. It’s strange to see them so light—they’re almost dancing. She stares once again at his lips, which are pink and parted, and she leans into him and kisses them, because they are begging to be kissed. She inhales the scent of him, heady and thick, and he’s encompassing her, folding her into his arms, keeping her safe. His mouth is wet, and warm, and she smiles, bubbling with joy, laughing against his lips.

_He is here._

And she is home.


	2. Penance

When she faced him, she was confronted with his large frame, chest bare, his dark hair loose and wavy. His eyes were soft.

She was struck by the sudden vulnerability of it, of him, of seeing not a sinner or a monster, but a man, flawed and exposed. Her eyes shifted lower.

Angry red welts decorated his torso, one still halfheartedly oozing blood. Silvery lines littered his skin, snaking around wrists, his back, his chest.

She gasped. When he heard her, his lips parted in embarrassment as he registered her presence. He turned to her and hastily pulled on his robes, the loose fitting clothing slipping easily over his head.

“It’s not polite to sneak up on people.” His attempt at bravado sounded false, even to his ears.

Her face still held a measure of alarm, her eyes wide, as if even under his clothing she was attempting to assess the full extent of his injuries.

“What happened? How did you get—”

Her already round eyes widened a fraction more in sudden realization.

“He tortured you. The scars, they’re from him, aren’t they?”

The welts ached from where were concealed under the soft fabric. He should have known that he couldn’t have hidden them from her if he had wanted to. His silence only confirmed her suspicions.

The physical scars, he could take. They had served to make him stronger. The emotional ones, though, would take far longer to heal.

Images of him disrobing came unwillingly to his mind, words tumbling unbidden from his lips.

"I’ve had my fair share of struggles.” His voice came out softer than he had anticipated. She looked at him with a frown, as if trying to read past his words.

In his mind’s eye, a sleeve slipped off a shoulder. A pale hand beckoned toward him, and he obeyed. He shuddered internally and blocked out what came next.

_He’s gone. He’s gone and he’s not coming back. It’s in the past. He’s in the past. And he can torment me no more._

His gaze returned to the woman in front of him, her face bearing no judgment, no hate. It was only a short time ago seemingly that she regarded him with venom in her eyes, spitting fire at him, calling him a monster. How far they had come.

“Why did you stay with him?” she asked, gently. She seemed to have sensed that there was more to the abuse than he had let on.

He paused before responding, but finally decided on the truth. She deserved that much. “I wanted power. I thought he could give it to me.”

He sighed then, just once. “I was wrong.”

Terribly wrong. He had been idealistic, accepting any task brought to him. When he had been asked for more, he had willingly provided it. Mind, body. He gave every part of himself. Even then he had thought it was just the price to pay to reach his ends.

But then he had met her.

She was still looking at him in that assessing frown, a look that could have been close to pity if he didn’t know her better than that. It was almost like she was trying to understand him, to see how his mind worked in that moment, understand why he did what he had done. Try to reconcile the unforgivable actions with the weary, broken man in front of her.

Then she did something unexpected. With a look of determination on her face, like she had just made an important decision, she walked forward, just a few steps. They were faster than he could have anticipated. She looked like she was about to collide with him, and he stepped back instinctively. But she kept coming. She hesitated for a fraction of a second when she was just a hair’s breath away from him, then wrapped her arms around him, pillowing her head against his chest.

He was stunned for a moment. Her tiny frame was engulfed by his solid mass, but he was the one encompassed by her warmth. She burned like a star, and he felt consumed by her. His arms hung limply in the air, but then slowly, very slowly, they came to wrap around her waist. He held her then, tightly, and she fit him like a puzzle piece, like a little missing piece of his soul.

When she tilted her head up, soft mouth seeking his own, he was powerless to do anything but to lean down and meet her.

As his dark lashes fluttered against her golden skin, the pink of her lips were the only thing that made sense.

~

 


	3. In the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short post-battle sequence.

In the dark, he flashes her a grin. It gleams wetly, catching snatches of light: a deep, deep red. Blood stains his teeth. She squints, and when he shifts, she can see purple stains under his eyes, great blooming bruises that smatter along his chin and jaw, before they dip and scurry away under the collar of his shirt.

She winces. Not that she’s escaped without damage, mind you—from where she’s standing, weight leaning heavily on her right foot, her legs tired, her ribs sore, tender and bruised—she’s no stranger to injuries. But _him_ —he seems to add something extra when he fights. He is perfectly content with sacrificing pieces of himself, taking more hurt if it means he can deal more damage. It’s a bit unhinged, animalistic, in a way, like he is a feral, savage thing, starving in captivity, waiting to be released.

Hunting for blood.

It’s also—she realizes with just a hint of a jolt—that he might not have as much regard for his life as she does.

It’s this, she thinks later, _this_ , that tips her over the edge. Completely and irrevocably, like dancing on the cusp, the very precipice, of a tall, limitless cliff. It’s like turning around to walk away, deciding it’s not worth the risk, then jumping backward, consequences be damned. Blind, blind, freefall, laughter as wild and untamed as a gaping canyon, an open maw, hungry to engulf. _To possess_. And she wants to possess him, she realizes. She’s not sure who she is in that scenario—the jumper or the wide, wide expanse, the universe unfolding beneath her feet. She thinks she might be both.

She twines long strands of hair around her fingers, surveying the bits of dust and crystallized glass that weave into it: a halo, a crown of wreckage. All the destruction that she has left behind. There is soot and dust in his hair, too, and woven into their clothes, and smattered across their cheeks. Blood is caked under their fingernails, has dried on their knuckles, has trickled down their limbs.

She feels heavy, fathomless, like she can’t support her own weight. Her head is woozy and suddenly feather-light—a balloon tied to a boulder. She presses her weight against the wall, collapses against it, slides onto the floor, graceless and spare. She doesn’t have the energy to sit upright. Her shoulder shudders, tips, and her head grazes the floor. He catches her in a panic, his fingers weaving into her hair, lacing under her skull like a crown.

 _What’s wrong,_ he whispers, frantic, and his hands run over her body in the dim light, searching for an injury he cannot see. He grazes her torso, and his fingers come away bright red.

How could she have missed this? She hadn’t even felt it, hadn’t known she’d been hit. But the wound is unmistakable, spreading across her abdomen like a pool of lava, searing, blazing with heat. He tries to wipe it away but only smears it across her skin. It mingles with the dirt and debris and she is surely a mess, a jumble of rubble, fragments and shards, no longer whole.

And how strange, how ironic that mere moments ago she had feared for his life, when it is her own that she should be concerned about. For which of them lies now in the arms of the other, weak and mortally wounded? Which one of them may still live to fight another day, may walk out of this ordeal bruised, but alive?

Her world is blurring around the corners, shapes in the dark coalescing into colored impressions, light and cold and haunting. She blinks, and his face is above hers, his hair stringy, his eyes impossibly wide and wet. In the dim light, they look black, like gleaming cinder, like volcanic rock, glassy and reflective.

She closes her eyes again, just for a second, surely, and suddenly doesn’t have the strength to open them again.

She goes slack in his arms. Worlds away, floating on foamy waves, deep at sea, she can hear him scream.

\---

She wakes up, engulfed in thick, downy blankets. She can feel his presence next to her. She pops open one eye, and finds him in a creaky chair, head bowed, staring at his hands. They are shaking, trembling like a waterfall. She sits up slowly and rests her fingers over his, steadying them. He looks up at her in wonder. His eyes aren’t black anymore, but a thick amber, and fathomless, like an ocean. He looks like he is in shock. He looks like he is brittle, a boy made of darkness, warped by sorrow into a concrete block of crisscrossing vaults of secrets and flimsy, unsound grace.

He looks lost.

“It worked,” he croaks, voice no louder than a whisper.

“You healed me,” she says, voice equally soft, and suddenly realizes that he had the power to do so, that he had held her life in his hands, like a delicate scale, like an unbalanced ship, veering off into the abyss.

That he had decided that she was worthy, was worthy of life and love and a second chance.

And even more frighteningly, that she had trusted him to do so, had closed her eyes in the hopes that when she opened them again, he would be there—a constant, an anchor, a rock.

And he was.


	4. Moonrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angsty reylo battle sequence. Also, Sith eyes!

She appeared before him in his chambers to end it, crystalline blue stuttering into the night with a neon buzz he’d recognize anywhere. They’d locked eyes and he had known what she wanted—he’d wanted nothing less.

They had started the battle fierce with determination, her sea-green eyes terrified but prepared to give her life. His own eyes gleamed red, irises rimmed in gold, unhinged and reckless. He didn’t care if he died in this battle; he sought it. They clashed like fire and ice, both willing to martyr themselves in this small room, unknown to either of their sides in this great, spanning war. Alone and private, a violent dance for their own eyes only.

They’re both injured, now, gravely, death wobbling and overlapping, bruises blossoming across their skin like ripples in water. They’re crawling toward each other, eager to continue, to _kill_ , as their muscles resist, both curled into the floor, weak but defiant. He can’t fathom how much he hates her, how much he wants to _rip_ her apart, yet how much his body, his very soul aches for her more than his next meal, his next breath.

He reaches her, grips her wrist bone until he hears it crack. She bends his arm backward and he feels the distinct pop, the tearing of muscles and sinew from bone. They are both wrecked, rapturous, and doomed, and even as they both fade, he feels a need for her, clear as daylight.

His fingers are splayed on her jawline, their legs intertwined. Dotted on her skin and his is blood—lush graveyards of scarlet, like liquid jewels. She’s pressing up against the sharp line of his hips, their bodies rolling like waves, an ocean of glass, icy and electric. Moon-dust falls like freckles on her face, and his ribcage is sore, aching with tenderness. His hands span her throat, feel the movement of her breath. He could press down upon it, steal the air from her lungs, watch the light fade from her eyes with pleasure and satisfaction. But as he lies above her, he simply observes the energy dripping from her veins, leaving her in waves, and he can’t help but imagine how much he’ll miss her, crave her, when she is gone.

In the daytime, she is a ragged, prickly thing, but in the dark of moonrise, she has come undone. He gasps at the gentling slopes of her skin, like mother-of-pearl and shining marble. Their world is unmade, a microcosm of heartbreak, their souls cleaving like beams of light shattering against crystal and quartz.

He can feel his blood through his veins, her skin so hot he is burning, a pain so divine it digs into his soul. But he can’t be close enough to her; any space between them is a gulf he has to cross, a great gulley he cannot bear to witness.

He’s rough and heavy and thickly wanton, broad and tall and loping. Such a fine, delicate thing is she, though, like spun glass. He feels as if he could break her, arms wrapping around her middle he could snap her skeleton in two, her spine crackling into daggers of moon-pale bone. But there is a tightness to her grip, to the steel and set of her teeth, and for a moment he is enveloped in the scent of her perfume, spiced and heady, and realizes just as easily that, given the time, she could have been his own undoing.

Caverns of ocean flowers can’t measure up to the sea embedded in her eyes, light pouring out when she blinks, like captured starshine. Her lips are the plush pink of hibiscus, tinged dusky with sipping kisses, rooted like flowers, washed like jewels into his memory, into his skin.

Her curved waist, his stuttering hips, their sharp gasps are too much in the gasping otherworldliness of the night. Her fingers are steadying against him, naked hands bleeding words she cannot speak.

He hisses in divinity, a breath caught between teeth and tongue when she unravels. She bites down on his lips, razor-sharp and metallic, like tasting the stem of a rose. Fine veils of tears are pooling on both their cheeks. He follows her into oblivion, like a puppet with its strings cut, falling into glorious valleys, rapt and wrecking.

Her rose-dewed skin is dappled in constellations when he opens his eyes, alcoholic in its intensity. She’s glossed and honeyed, eyes rich and piercing. He wants to kiss the pink away, breathe it into his lungs, glide it down his throat like summer rain until she is pale, lily-white and frozen like him.

He blinks at the rivers of crimson when they unravel their limbs. There is liquid there, precious and spilled, on her arms, on her face, gliding lush and unfettered like droplets in a rainforest across her spine. It’s smeared, too, wetly, gleaming dark on his lips and his ribs, sodden and shaking. She slants her eyes at him, the fringe of her lashes tangled with teardrops even as her mouth is wide, joyous and triumphant.

His heart pulses at the expression, foreign and godlike.

 _Your eyes_ , she bleeds coolly into the space between them even as her head becomes feather light, scent and sound lost in the empty void of space.

She sighs, a sound like heaven, and shimmers into the night, disappears, blissful and lovely and deific.

His lips part and he staggers to his feet, suddenly panic-stricken and jelly-limbed. His chest is suddenly empty; she has been _ripped_ from him along with his heart. He sinks to his knees, lurching into the low table, and he sends his helmet clattering, echoing metal and omens, to the floor. He grasps it desperately and stares intently at it, terrified at what he might see.

Clear and dark eyes stare at him, wide and wet, before he slides to the floor, silent and unmoving.

 


	5. Jagged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reimagining with some role-reversal!

As he sat in the cold, stark med bay, he observed the map of injuries on his arms, littering his skin like constellations. Dark, purple bruises and deep angry cuts, many of which still bled freely, decorated, stood out starkly against his moon-pale skin. It seemed every time one was on its way to healing, he would receive another one, injuries overlapping one another in an endless circle. Even as a child he had been precocious, collecting bruises and scrapes like shining medallions.

His thoughts drifted to her, to her porcelain skin, smooth and unblemished, and couldn’t imagine if he had ever looked like that. He wouldn’t again, surely. Not now. There were scars of his that were permanent, too deep, too large, to ever heal fully.

Her body, though, was just inches and inches, dips and valleys of blankness, a marble statue, free of marks, free of imperfections.

But now…

He sat by her bedside, her limp hand in his, her skin soft against his rough, calloused fingertips. A masterpiece.

Arms, shoulders, collarbones. Perfect. Pristine. The rest of her body, covered by soft blankets, was surely the same. Stretches and stretches of white canvas.

Until his eyes reached her face.

The deep, long, scar cut across her jaw, snaking its way up toward her cheek, across her nose, up, up, and ending just above her opposite brow. It was dark and angry, a ravine, bisecting her features, ruining her perfection. His heart lurched.

Her only flaw, but (and he hated to admit it), it was a significant one.

She stirred suddenly, floating up toward consciousness.

He drew in a shaky breath and looked up at her, his eyes wide and wet.

She sat up then, gingerly, smiled at him when she noticed him sitting there. The movement resulted in a strange twist of her mouth, a lopsided sort of grin, stretching the scar so it stood out even more brightly against her face.

“Hi,” she said, softly, but brightly. She shifted again, but suddenly grimaced in pain, and her hand came up to touch her cheek.

He looked at her, terrified for a moment. Her eyes were the same, hazel, bright, unfettered. Round and hopeful, framed by sooty lashes.  But the scar—

“Well,” she whispered, catching him staring, “How does it look?”

Ah. So she’d remembered the battle. That meant she also remembered how she’d received the injury. He gulped. He couldn’t answer her. Instead, he gaped at her wordlessly as her fingers attempted to trace the wound’s path, too see it in her mind’s eye. He didn’t have a mirror to give her. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have wanted to. She winced a bit as she felt the thick, marred edges. Again, the expression was lopsided and uneven.

Then, remarkably, she laughed. Her face stretched oddly, the smirk not quite effective, but the amusement in her voice was unmistakable.

“That bad, huh?” she asked. She was no longer trying to feel the gash; she had simply observed his expression. She must have read the alarm on his face.

He couldn’t get his mouth to move. His throat had closed up, his mouth hoarse and dry. His eyes pleaded with her.

“I’m sorry,” he finally croaked.

“Don’t be.” She said dismissively.

He simply stared at her. Couldn’t take his eyes off her, no matter how gruesome the injury was.

She scanned the room quickly, and then frowned. “Get me a mirror, will you?” she asked.

“I don’t—”

“There’s one in my bag, in the pocket.”

The tiny satchel lay at the foot of the bed. It must have been brought in with her. He couldn’t refuse her request now, much as he wanted to. He slipped his fingers inside the bag, thinking that perhaps he wouldn’t find it, but all too soon his grip closed around the handle of a small, simple hand mirror. He hesitated and then held it out to her, hoping for a wild moment that she wouldn’t take it.

How silly of him. Of course she would take it. Even if she didn’t, not today, not now, it wasn’t as if he could prevent her from ever catching a glimpse of her own reflection.

She took the mirror from his clammy fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, again.

This she ignored. He couldn’t blame her. What else could he say?

She held the mirror it in front of her face, and he could have sworn he stopped breathing,

She looked then, slanted her eyes toward the glass. She leaned in closer. Her eyes widened just a fraction, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she burst into tears. His heart cleaved at the thought. She would hate him forever, for this, for what he had done to her.

Instead, after a long moment, she let out a low whistle.

“Well,” she said, and he was surprised to her voice as steady as ever, “You certainly did a number on me, didn’t you?” A lump formed in his throat, solid and heavy.

As she tilted her head this way and that, attempting to assess her face from every angle, a tear escaped his eye.

Then another. And another. His heart seized.

A sob escaped him. He buried his face in his hands, but he wasn’t fast enough. She had heard him, and she jerked out of her quiet appraisal. She set the mirror down on the bed and reached out to him, her fingers coming down to rest on his quaking shoulder.

“Why are you crying?” she asked, gently, as if he wasn’t to blame for the mess he had made of her face.

“I—I,” he choked out.

“Is it because of what happened?” Her voice had dropped to a soft tone, soothing, like an ocean.

“Listen to me,” she said, curling her fingers around his chin, tipping it up to face her, “I know it was a close call, but we’re okay, really, both of us are just fine, and everyone else is fine, too. We’re lucky, remember? We’re so lucky.”

She laughed once, bright like the sun. “It’s a miracle, but we all made it out alive. Don’t worry, okay?”

As she spoke, she twisted a lock of his hair around her finger, nails scratching against his scalp. “In fact,” she said, vibrant in her optimism, “give me a second and we’ll go figure out our next move. I’m sure you’ll be glad to see everybody, I feel like I slept the whole day away!”

Her voice had taken on an odd edge. She had been speaking in what he was sure she was convinced was a chipper, reassuring tone.

But why was she reassuring him? He should be the one comforting her.

Before he could work this out, though, she had thrown off her covers, swung her legs over to the side of the bed, and reached for her bag, trying to find her clothes.

“Have you seen my jacket?” she asked absently, untying her hair from its knots and yanking on a fresh pair of socks. “I had it earlier, but maybe—”

His tongue unstuck itself from the roof of his mouth. “That’s it?” he managed to rasp out, tone full of shock.

“What’s it?” she replied, still preoccupied.

“We’re not going to talk about…?”

“About…?”

She was going to make him say it, wasn’t she?

He gestured helplessly toward his own face.

His own, unblemished, scar-free face.

She frowned. “I thought we just did.” She picked up the mirror, showing it to him, as if he were a silly boy who had forgotten what had just transpired. He saw his own reflection for a second, his eyes wide and wet, his face pale. But then it was gone, the mirror thrown back into her bag along with a half dozen other ramshackle possessions strewn about the room.

“But, but—” he spluttered.

She shot him a look, one that bore much less patience than before. It was a look that very much said that she would appreciate him actually telling her what was rattling around in that brain of his, instead of hoping she would just reach in and read his mind. He almost wished that she would.

He burst out suddenly, unable to contain the words, “I slashed your face! There’s a huge scar!” he pointed out, as if she had maybe forgotten to look at it. Hadn’t she seen? Didn’t she realize what that meant?

She shrugged.

“Yes, you did. I was there, remember?” she gave him an odd look, like she thought he was a little slow.  “But I know that you did what was necessary in the moment. I would have done the same thing if I were you. Don’t beat yourself up about it. Because of you, we were all able to make it out of there alive.”

Finally having located all her clothes, she straightened and moved to pull her bag over her head, “Besides,” she added, “I’m sure I’ll get more scars in the future. Our lives aren’t necessarily the definition of safe,” she chuckled, as if she had shared a private joke between them. She bent down, intent on doing up the laces on her shoes.

“How can you be so nonchalant about this?” He grabbed at her wrist, stilling her motions.

She looked up at him questioningly.

“It’s just a scar. Nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about? I ruined your face!”

At this, she laughed. Actually laughed. Had the world gone mad?

“You think it’s ruined?” she asked mildly.

“No, no, I just,” I he stammered.” Where were these words coming from? His mouth seemed to be running without his permission.  “I did that! You’ll have that scar forever, because of me!”

She paused, as if considering this for the first time. “Yes, I suppose I will,” she conceded, still with that imperturbable expression on her face.

“You know,” she whispered conspiratorially, after a beat, “I never knew you cared about my looks so much before.” She grinned toothily. “Is it so horrendous?  Am I so unattractive now?” She plucked around for the mirror again, examined her reflection serenely. He swallowed. No matter what, no matter how she looked, or what she did, she would always be sunlight to him.  But he had injured her, caused her pain, and now, he had taken her beauty, too. He said nothing, hung his head, and stared at the floor.

She sighed. “Would you look at me?”

He met her eyes. Hazel. Round. Sooty lashes.

“Don’t wallow in guilt because of what happened. You did what you had to do. We all made it out safe. A scar is just a scar.” She said, as if it was just a tiny injury, a bruise or a scrape that would fade into the distance.

Didn’t she understand?

“You will always have that scar!” he snapped, tracing its path angrily on his own face with his fingertips. “I attacked you, and that mark will lie forever upon your skin! Everyone who looks at you will see that scar first! They’ll see the consequence of violence I inflicted on you! I—I took away your looks.”

She tilted her head at him, nonplussed.

“You’re right.” she said, the first sane thing she had said since waking up. If she said now that she hated him, that the damage he had done was irrevocable, he could not deny the truth in her words. But, for what must be the thousandth time today, she surprised him.

“You’re right,” she repeated. “This scar is permanent.” She said, loudly. She seemed to be speaking to his very soul. She swallowed, then smiled, amazingly. How could this woman be smiling?

“But just so you know,” she continued, almost shyly—and this seemed to bemuse him even more—“if I wanted anyone’s mark upon my skin, for all eternity, for all the world to see, I would want it to be yours.” And she beamed as she said this, as if she was a ray of light, of goodness. Her warmth seemed to surround her like a halo. He couldn’t fathom what she had just said. His brain seemed to have short circuited.

But she was still speaking. He forced himself to listen. “And now everyone who looks at me, and sees my face, will know what you’re a part of it,” she glowed, “A part of me.”

At this, she gathered her jacket, which she had spotted on the back of his chair, tugged on her other shoe, and flounced out of bed toward the door.

“Are you coming?” she inquired, gently, still unapologetically amused.

He shut his mouth after he realized he was gaping after her, and then he did the only thing he could ever imagine doing, the pursuit he was certain he would spend the rest of eternity carrying out.

He followed her.

 


	6. Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An imagined force-bond sequence, post-TLJ.

“ _Stop it.”_ she said into the blackness.

Her room was empty in the early morning hours. She spoke into the echoes of it without opening her eyes.

“Stop projecting your thoughts,” she said wryly, “I can’t sleep with you thinking so loudly.”

She heard the sheets shift, opened her eyes, and Ben was there in the small bed in-between her and the wall, head to toe with her, his skull at the footboard.

His eyes were closed too, and he huffed impatiently, “Why don’t you learn to shield your mind from me?”

“Why should I?” she smirked, “You should think quieter. Besides,” she said with amusement, “I shouldn’t be privy to First Order secrets.”

At this he popped his eyes open. They shone amber in the morning light.

They both sat up, like one body sitting up in front of a mirror, perfect opposites. She was in a dark sleep tank, almost black and he was dressed in a light gray undershirt—very nearly white.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully after a moment, “I really thought that once you killed Snoke, the bond would die.”

He sat contemplatively for a tick, as if building up the courage to ask her something. He inhaled once and blew out the breath sharply. “Did you ever wish it had?” he asked quietly, chin on his knee.

“Yes,” she said honestly. “Sometimes. Other times I’m glad it’s still here.”

He smiled lightly.

“But not this time. You’ve never come when I was sleeping. I was in the middle of a good dream.”

“What were you dreaming about?” he asked immediately, interested. What does a scavenger girl dream of?

“I can’t tell you that. It won’t come true.”

“That’s only for wishes.” he said incredulously.

“You don’t know that.” She laughed.

“You know,” he grinned, lying back down, elbows beneath his head, “I’ve never had a girl in my bed before.”

“That’s a lie,” she said instantly, herself to settling back into her pillow.

He raised his eyebrows. “No, it isn’t.”

“Yes it is. When you were at the temple with Luke you shared a bed with that Ewok girl because there weren’t enough cots because one of the students got too overexcited with the training sabers.”

“Now who’s reading my thoughts?” he admonished lightly.

He turned to face her. She mirror imaged him, her eyes still closed, her face peaceful and calm.

“Besides,” he paused, noting her closed eyes, “you’re much prettier than an Ewok.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment,” she snorted, and he laughed.

She paused, feeling her unfinished dream beckoning back to her. “For the record, you are, too. Prettier than an Ewok, I mean.” she mumbled sleepily, “You’re beautiful.”

He fought furiously at the blush spreading across his cheeks even as his eyes widened in wonder. How anyone could find him beautiful, he couldn’t imagine. But this girl with skin like moonlight did, and he couldn’t be luckier.

“Rey, I—”

“Yeah?”

“I wish things were different.” he decided. That was murky, but it was what he had to offer her, for now.

“Apology accepted,” she smirked dreamily.

He was silent, and she heard the shift of air again, now quiet and still.

She opened her eyes and she was alone again. The space he had occupied was empty, and the bed was cold, his image dissolved into the early morning light.

Every time she opened her eyes and looked at him, she was afraid he would disappear.

And he did.

And she never looked, not once.

She never wanted to see him leave, see him fade away—just like everyone else.


	7. Kerostasia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short, non-linear analysis.

**These are the things that are false:**

_You’re a monster_ , she says. _I hate you_ , hangs in the air, unsaid, but understood.

These are falsities. They settle uneasily in her gut. A lie is a growling creature, nagging at her innards. _Take it back_ , the creature groans. _Take back those words_.

Words are weaponry, sharp and furious. These words she has chosen are her first weapons of many.

But he knows this. He _knows_ , and he can fight, too.

_You are nothing_ , he tells her, brashly, earnestly, a thousand years later, a lifetime of war.

But this, too, is untrue. So many lies that sprout bitter in his memories lick along his spine in objection. He backpedals, immediately.

_But not to me_ , he amends.

**These are things that are true:**

_You are afraid_ , she tells him.

He can’t disagree. He’s damn near _terrified._

_You are so lonely_ , he breathes in response.  _Lovely_ , though, might have been truer. 

She hates it, _hates_ it, but it is no more false than rainfall. It is truer than snow.   _I’ve never felt so alone,_ she admits.

A part of him didn’t think she’d admit it. The other part is surprised he feels the same.

_I didn’t hate him_ , he says later, which is true, but it is not far from a lie. A childhood spent in isolation breeds a need for a scapegoat, one who is unwilling and uneager and incapable.  

_I want him back,_ a tired voice sighs, and this, _this_ , might be the truest of all. His finger rests on a button lightly. He moves it away.

_Forgive me,_ he pleads to a ghost, and this is neither truth nor lie. It is predicated on falsity, but the intent is honest. _Forgive me,_ not for being led back, but for being led astray in the first place.

_I’m sorry_ , words he has not yet spoken.

These are so true they hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think! :)


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